A Fleeting Dream
by ThePhantomDragon204
Summary: This is a sequel to the Phantom of the Opera novel. Raoul and Christine head off into the sunset, and Erik disappears. Several years later, the legend of the Opera Ghost has faded into oblivion—that is, until a certain ballet girl named Emma vanishes... (Will publish as often as possible. This may not necessarily be romance. Yes, I'm one of those weirdos who improvises as they go.)
1. Prologue

_Sweden, Summer 1881_

A man sat in a cozy armchair overlooking a crackling fireplace. The fire toyed with the shadows, casting strange shapes around the small living room. The twilight sky outside the window was a rich dark blue, almost black; there was no true night during the Scandinavian summers. The man sat, silent and unmoving, until he lifted his arm to peer at his watch. He had gotten a new one—his old watch had been broken by himself, back when he was in Paris.

It was eleven o'clock. Christine was surely asleep by now—she shouldn't know about the little present Raoul had received...

Raoul de Chagny glanced down at his pocket and pulled out a small brown parcel he had received a couple hours back. He carefully tore open the parcel and pulled out a sheet of parchment paper. The rest of the small package contained items that belonged to his young bride, Christine. A pair of gloves, two handkerchiefs, a shoe buckle, hair combs... A cold knot of fear twisted in Raoul's stomach.

He took a deep breath to summon his courage before he read the letter. It read: _Erik has requested me to return these items to Christine and to place a notice in the obituary section of L'Epoque for him. He said you would know what this means._

Yes, Raoul knew. The package had come here all the way from Paris, mailed from a Persian who had taken Raoul beneath the Paris Opera House to rescue Christine from Erik. However, they themselves had fallen into the mirrored chamber of the monster, and had barely escaped with their lives. This package signified that Erik was dead, and Christine was to return to Paris. She would journey down into the depths of the opera house, down into that terrible darkness, and return to his dead finger the simple gold ring he had made her wear.

Christine would return to Erik... the man who had killed Philippe, Raoul's older brother. The man who had tried to force Christine to marry him. The man who nearly killed Raoul.

The fear which coursed through Raoul's veins turned into a cold determined anger. He gritted his teeth. There was no way he would let Christine return to Erik—she would never know about this package, or this letter. She would never return to Paris, ever, and give that monster an opportunity to hurt them again.

Raoul crumpled up the letter and threw it into the crackling fireplace, watching with a strange satisfaction as the parchment blackened and curled inward like a dead leaf. He then donned his overcoat and shoes, carrying the package with him, and strode outside. He headed down the small dirt path until he reached a ledge. Beneath him stretched out a vast valley, complete with a river and mountains. He tossed the parcel into the crisp air of the Northland, thinking about Christine. She was with the man of her dreams, while Erik was still giving her nightmares, many months later.

Christine would never go back to the Palais Garnier. Only a complete madman would think so... Raoul thought.

"Goodbye, Erik," Raoul muttered out loud. He then added sarcastically, "I surely will miss you. Perhaps Christine and I will meet you in heaven..." He paused. "Actually, I hope you rot in hell. Have fun down there, will you?"

* * *

Everyone talked about the strange and mysterious scandal for months:

 _The Opera Ghost strikes again... Seven tons of chandelier falls on a concierge's head as prima donna croaks... Young Swedish singer kidnapped... Comte de Chagny found dead, his brother the Vicomte gone..._

These words were upon every pair of Parisian lips. These words were in every cafe, every parlor, every party. Rumors spread like plagues, infecting every mind they came into contact with. For a while it was all anyone could talk about. People talked about what could possibly have happened to the Swedish singer Christine Daae and the Vicomte de Chagny, wondered out loud who did it all and for what reason.

But eventually, the scandal faded away into oblivion. The staff of the Opera had all but forgotten those terrible events that had happened at the opera house. No one was afraid of the mystical figure called the Opera Ghost anymore. And Parisians lost interest, moving onto other topics. The strange events that took place at the opera house were forgotten.

But some events are not meant to be forgotten—nor should they.


	2. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** Sorry I couldn't publish for a while, my parents didn't allow me to use the computer for a while. Please forgive me for the delay in publishing.

* * *

 _Palais Garnier, Spring 1884_

Emma LaRue eyed her friend Lucienne nervously. "It's after curfew. What do you want?" She glanced down the dark corridor that yawned before her, and a sudden dread started to creep into her chest. Emma shivered.

Lucienne shook out her elegant golden hair and said casually, "Oh, I'm sneaking into the kitchen to grab some sweets. It's going to be fine, Emma. It's not like there's a ghost stalking the Opera House or something… You don't believe in ghosts, do you?"

Emma gulped. "No, I don't! That kind of nonsense is ridiculous. It's just that these dark hallways gives me a really bad feeling… It feels like someone is watching us. I'm heading back to my room."

"Come on, Emma, don't be a silly goose." Lucienne grabbed Emma's arm and pulled Emma away from the dorm room entrance. "You're always so nervous. What are you even nervous about? Everyone else in this building is asleep, and there's no ghost or anything. Of course, a couple years ago, there was an incident… "

Terror seized Emma's heart, and her eyes widened. "W-w-what incident?"

Lucienne explained blithely, "Oh, three years ago, these mysterious events happened. The Swedish singer Christine Daae at one point vanished while she was singing. People say she was kidnapped. In addition, the Comte de Chagny was found dead on the shore of an underground lake, and his brother, the Vicomte, simply disappeared, never to be seen again. People assume he's dead… But don't worry, I've made the journey to the kitchen dozens of times already and nothing bad has ever happened to me. You want sweets too, don't you?" She crept through the passageways on tiptoe, still clutching Emma's arm, who was forced to follow her.

Emma felt a knot of fear twist in her stomach. People dying and vanishing?... Emma shook her head. What Lucienne heard was likely gossip from the other ballet rats, who were extremely superstitious. Emma doubted if a word of it was true, but she couldn't help but feel a creeping sense of dread.

They made their way through the many hallways of the Palais Garnier, eventually working their way to the outside of the kitchen door. Lucienne told Emma, "Wait for me here."

Then Lucienne slipped away into the darkness.

Emma considered making a run for it—after all, she didn't want to get caught raiding the opera kitchen—but she didn't know this section of the hallways well, and she would surely get lost. So she waited for Lucienne to return, with her golden curls and brilliant blue eyes and brave, daring personality.

Several minutes later, Lucienne reappeared with a basket tucked beneath her arm. "Let's go," she whispered, tiptoeing away. Emma trailed her closely.

They sneaked through the dark and silent corridors, treading carefully. They made it back up to their room without trouble, and when Emma was safely in her dorm room, she breathed a sigh of relief as she gently shut the door behind her.

* * *

Louis Durand peered at the narrow passageway before him. He thought he had spotted someone here… someone dressed in black, stalking the corridors long after curfew. How odd.

He had been above the great stage when he saw a flash of black on black in the periphery of his vision, and became curious as to why someone would be out and about after curfew. Louis himself had been preparing the props for the staging of Le Prophète tomorrow—he was a scene-shifter—and he had just finished when he saw the figure. He then hurried after the vague shadow, catching short glimpses of him before he disappeared from view. He was now deep in the cellars in pursuit of the figure about after curfew.

Louis leaned on a prop from the Le Roi de Lahore, breathing hard. He had been chasing the figure for quite a while now, and needed rest. He also needed time to think: why would someone retreat to the depths of the opera?

He had been contemplating for some time, so he was caught by surprise when something fell around his neck. Odd, he thought—until the cord-like substance tightened around his neck. Louis gasped for air, and struggled to loosen the noose with his fingers, but to no avail.

His desperate clawing slowed; his eyes bulged; his vision grew dimmer and blacker. Before the darkness overwhelmed him, Louis twisted his head—and saw two golden points. Stars… but there were no stars shining down in the cellars of the Opera House. They must be the eyes of a feral demon, the eyes of a nightmare...


	3. Chapter 2

_Palais Garnier, Spring 1884_

Emma followed Lucienne down the hallway toward the Opera House stage. Lucienne had shared the stolen macarons with Emma last night, and she felt refreshed and ready for more dancing. However, a ballet rat was sprinting down the hall toward them. _Odd_ , Emma thought. The ballet rats would usually head to the Opera House stage for practice, especially since there was going to be a staging of _Le Prophète_ tonight, and the girls needed additional practice. Anyone who didn't comply to the rules, Emma heard, would be flogged. She had never seen anyone get flogged, but the girls whispered about the cruel punishments inflicted by the corps de ballet teacher, Madame Devereaux, and they were always sure to follow her instructions.

Apparently the little girl rushing toward Emma and Lucienne thought otherwise. Her face was pale and her blue eyes were wide as she stumbled toward the pair, who had stopped.

"Are-are you running away from Madame Devereaux?" Emma inquired. That expression on the rat's face was terror… and Madame Devereaux _did_ instill terror in the corps de ballet. Perhaps this girl feared flogging…

The ballet girl stumbled and collapsed in front of Emma, who caught her with her arms.

"What's wrong?" Lucienne asked.

The small girl was visibly trembling. "You're-you're-you're Emma, aren't you? The girl with the English mother?"

Emma nodded. The girls always found that fact strange; perhaps it was because the English didn't come to Paris often.

"You… you see… the scene-shifter… "

"What about him?" Lucienne said impatiently. Her brazenness always surprised Emma, even after spending several months with her.

"The scene-shifter… Louis Durand… he's dead!"

The blood rushed from Emma's face. _How… how is it possible?_ Sure, scene-shifting was dangerous work, but Louis Durand was experienced.

"How?" Lucienne gasped, mirroring her thoughts. Her fearlessness had left her, leaving her shocked.

"Louis... Louis Durand was found... he was... dead hanging from a set piece from the Le Roi de Lahore," the girl blurted, as if to quickly get it over with.

Emma felt as if the world was tilting beneath her feet. Louis had been murdered. _But no..._ The scene-shifter was a warm, friendly figure who had been loved by everyone. No one would hold any grudges against him.

 _Or would they?_

"Wh-wh-who?" Lucienne asked. Her face was visibly pale.

The ballet rat shook her head. "I don't know," she said. "No one knows. I heard there's an investigation going on, but really, no one's sure of anything."

Suddenly, a thought struck Emma. What if... what if the murder of Louis Durand had some sort of connection to the events Lucienne mentioned three years ago? A kidnapped singer... a dead Comte... and a vanished Vicomte.

Emma suddenly wondered why she had to be in the middle of all this. She was just a silly ballet girl—she wasn't capable of anything interesting, really.

Lucienne tapped Emma on the shoulder. "You know... you know about those events I told you about last night?" She was pale and shivering, reduced to a shell of her former self.

"Yeah?"

The ballet girl had leaned in too, eager to hear what Lucienne had to say.

"You see... in addition to the kidnapping of Swedish singer Christine Daae, the mysterious death of the Comte de Chagny, and the disappearance of the Vicomte de Chagny, there was also a murder. It was the murder of a scene-shifter, Joseph Buquet..."

Emma's eyes widened. "No way. That's... " _A wild coincidence._

 _Or is it?_

* * *

"Uh, I don't think it's safe to do this," Emma pointed out as she and Lucienne snuck out of their rooms for the second night in a row.

"Oh, it's fine," Lucienne said quietly. After several hours, she had returned to her usual self, but with a strange kind of hushed quietness added to her usually carefree personality.

The girls crept down the kitchen for the second time, and yet again, Lucienne instructed Emma to stay at the kitchen door while she snuck in.

Emma stood, anxiously waiting, for several minutes while Lucienne snatched food from the kitchen. She waited, wondering what was taking Lucienne so long to come out.

And then it happened.

Emma felt a strange, prickly feeling at her back of her neck, as if she was being watched. She felt a stab of fear, wondering if someone had spotted her. Now she was definitely going to get flogged.

And Lucienne—perhaps Lucienne had been found, too! Or perhaps she was hiding in the kitchen.

Emma turned around, eyes wide, about to exclaim that Lucienne was in the kitchen—and her heart stopped.

She stared down the hallway at twin points, gleaming in the darkness. Those were—those were _eyes_ , weren't they? Eyes glowing in the darkness. Those were they eyes of the devil himself.

Emma found herself unable to move, unable to breathe, as those eyes bored into her. She felt vulnerable, vulnerable as an insect pinned to a display. Those eyes were examining her, inspecting her...

And then, with a strange _whoosh_ like that of the wind, they were gone.

* * *

"Sorry I took so long. Some clumsy chef or servant misplaced the macarons today," Lucienne said as she stepped out of the kitchen. "Some new recruit, I think. Someone who can't tell a macaron from a biscuit, although I took some of those, too—"

Lucienne's eyes fell on Emma. She was pale and trembling, breathing harshly, the sound awfully loud in the otherwise-silent corridors.

* * *

Meanwhile, a black figure slunk through the hallways.

 _Emma—was that her name?_ he pondered. _Yes. Emma._

His heart, even now, ached from losing his Christine. She was his, until he let her go with that Vicomte. He had released them after Christine had shown him love, with that kiss. Even now, he trembled at the memory of it. She didn't fear him, she kissed him... she didn't run away or scream as so many others had.

He was supposed to pass away several days after, but he didn't. He remained alive, as much as he wanted to die. He had gone to the daroga and admitted to him that he was going to die. Except he didn't. Yet his obituary appeared in the newspaper two weeks later.

And Erik continued to live, pondering what he had done.

He regretted releasing Christine now. He shouldn't have let her go, shouldn't have released her. How he missed her so... Well, now it wouldn't matter, now that he had a plan to get her back. And it would involve that little English girl, Emma.

Erik wasn't supposed to run into Emma. He had been sneaking toward the kitchen to steal some food—every man needed sustenance, after all—when he saw her. This was the first time he had gotten a good look at her. And he had continued to watch her.

Emma had noticed him, yet he had continued to examine her, her mouse-brown hair, her gray-blue-eyes, her pale skin. Eventually, he had left, deciding to enter the kitchen through a different route.

And yet... that girl looked plain, but Erik had noticed something about her. Her voice had untapped talent, but she didn't seem too keen on using it. He had peered at her from his hiding place in Box Five, watching her dance in the ballet and listening to her singing when Lucienne prompted her to.

Perhaps he should change that soon. And perhaps win Christine back in the meantime...


	4. Chapter 3

_Palais Garnier, Spring 1884_

"Emma, pay attention. Were you listening to what I was saying?" Madame Devereaux scolded. The ballet mistress was glowering at Emma, who didn't seem to be concentrating. "I want you to pay attention, not stare off into space. Class dismissed."

As the ballet rats hurried back to their dormitory rooms, Lucienne nudged Emma. "Emma, what's wrong with you today? Were those biscuits bad? I hate those new chefs—they don't know anything about cooking. They always misplace food and confuse ingredients."

Emma didn't reply.

"Emma, what's happened to you?"

Emma looked up at Lucienne and said, "While you were in the kitchen last night, I saw a pair of glowing eyes. At human level. I-I-"

Lucienne twisted her head around to face Emma. "Maybe you saw the Opera Ghost."

Emma blanched. "The Opera Ghost?"

" _Non_ , I'm just joking. What you saw was a cat standing on a ledge."

Emma closed her eyes and took a deep breath. So it wasn't the devil or some otherworldly apparition after all—just a cat. But then—

"What's the Opera Ghost?" Emma inquired. Oh, why did she have such a terrible feeling about this? She regretted those words almost as soon as they came out of her mouth. She didn't want to know.

On the other hand, a strange part of her—curiosity—was gnawing at her. She _had_ to know what this Opera Ghost was. Perhaps it had something to do with the murder of Louis Durand.

"Three years ago," Lucienne started, "in tandem with the mysterious goings-on at this very Opera House, there was said to be a ghost. A ghost who would play all kinds of pranks on the staff and extort the managers for money. They also said the ghost demanded his very own private box in which he could view performances in—Box Five."

"Did these events happen for real?" Emma felt a strange feeling—wonder edged with terror.

Lucienne replied, "Of course they did, Emma. Come on—I'll take you to a ballet girl who witnessed these events." Lucienne took hold of Emma's arm and led her down several passageways that diverged from their typical path to the ballet girls' dorm.

Eventually, Lucienne stopped in front of a door. She knocked. "Meg? Are you there?"

The door opened and a jet-haired girl peered out. "What?"

"Can you tell Emma here about the _very real—_ " here she turned to glance at Emma— "events that happened here?"

Meg turned to look at Emma. "Yes. Of course. Lucienne, you shouldn't go around talking about _those_ happenings to everyone, though I suppose telling her is alright." Here she gestured at Emma. "Emma—that's your name, is it?—we should talk. Come in."

Emma stepped into the room. It was just like any other dorm room—except there were no girls in it except Meg, Emma, and Lucienne.

"The other girls in the room have left for a stroll," Meg explained. "So we're alone here. Have you come to hear the story of the Opera Ghost?"

Emma nodded, sitting down on a bed. Lucienne, excitedly, hopped and pranced about before settling on a different bed. "I've heard this story many times before, but each time it seems new and everything! You should start, Meg!"

Meg sighed. "I used to be like you, Lucienne, but have since matured."

Lucienne paused, and opened her mouth to launch a retort.

"Don't worry, Lucienne. You'll mature in your own time," Meg said affably. "Alright, I'll tell my story. Three years ago, these strange events happened. Back then, my mother, Madame Giry, was the box-keeper of Box Five." She paused. "I remember when I and some other ballet rats were practicing, and we saw a man who suddenly appeared out of nowhere. We panicked and rushed into La Sorelli's room—she now performs in other places in Europe. There, as we were huddled about around La Sorelli, I accidentally blurted out what I knew about the Opera Ghost—that he inhabited Box Five, my mother's box, and that he didn't like it whenever people went around telling wild tales about him. A moment later, Jammes' mother—Jammes was a ballet rat who has now left the Opera House—Jammes' mother then came in and told us that Joseph Buquet, the chief scene-shifter, was dead.

"Buquet had gone around telling tales—he claimed to have seen the Opera Ghost himself, and he gave such a ghastly description of him! Well, he was found dead hanging from a set piece from the _Le Roi de Lahore_ —just like what happened to the other scene-shifter, Louis Durand."

Emma felt a strange sensation of fear. So assuming Meg's story was true, this Opera Ghost did have something to do with the Louis Durand's death. She shivered.

"Well, anyways, it was also found out that a Swedish ballet girl, Christine Daae, had the most beautiful voice, even though—and I swear on my heart that this is true—that six months before, she sang like a rusty hinge!

"The Comte de Chagny was a patron of the Opera House at the time, and his brother, the Vicomte de Chagny, started flirting with Christine. I heard they knew each other as children. Well, my mother told me the ghost was threatening the managers, so they had to give him twenty thousand francs a month—"

"Twenty thousand francs!" Emma exclaimed.

"You didn't tell me that before!" Lucienne protested at the same time.

" _Oui_ , the managers had to give twenty thousand francs to the ghost every month. And Lucienne, be quiet. Anyways, the managers planned to replace Mother and everything, but they failed, because at one point during a performance of _Faust_ , a singer, Carlotta, started to croak like a toad, and then the chandelier fell. It was a miracle that only one person lost her life—and it happened to be the concierge that was supposed to replace my mother.

Emma blinked. "How-"

Meg shrugged. "I have no idea how it happened. And then Christine Daae disappeared for two weeks. The Vicomte was worried sick. And when she came back, the two pretended to be engaged for a month before the Vicomte was supposed to leave on a polar expedition. Unfortunately, Christine was abducted at the end of that month. I didn't witness it myself, but someone told me how it happened:

"Christine was singing about angels and the like when suddenly, the stage lights turned off, plunging the stage into darkness. The lights were on again before the audience had time to exclaim, but by then, Christine had vanished. A freak accident was ruled out—the event was too precisely timed for that. I heard the Vicomte left to rescue Christine, but he was never seen again. Most people assume he's dead. Several days later, the Comte's body was found on the shore of an underground lake. He had presumably gone off to rescue the Vicomte, but had died.

"At the time, all this was all over the newspapers, but now, everything has long since been forgotten."

* * *

Emma sat in her dorm room, pondering Meg's tale. Several minutes earlier, she had gone off with Lucienne for a third kitchen raid, and as Lucienne munched on a biscuit, Emma wondered if Meg's tale was true.

Suddenly her eyes widened, for she heard a faint voice right next to her right ear: "Meg's story, I assure you, is true."

Emma froze, but the voice had disappeared. She glanced at Lucienne.

"Uh, was that you?" she asked.

"What?"

"I heard someone say something. Something about how Meg's story was real."

Lucienne shrugged. "Wasn't me." She brushed off some crumbs on her lap and turned away, settling into bed. Within minutes her chest was rising and falling at a regular rhythm.

Emma yawned. She was tired, too. Her eyes began to lower tiredly, when she saw something on her periphery. _Whaaaaa..._

They were eyes.

Glowing eyes.

Emma's eyelids snapped open. She opened her mouth to exclaim, but a hand was clamping down hard on her mouth, a hand that smelled of dust and decay...

She fainted.


	5. Chapter 4

Note: Someone in the comments has volunteered to proofread my chapters and provide suggestions. I would like this someone to message me privately so I can send them a draft of the next chapter to proofread. Otherwise, ignore this comment.

* * *

 _Palais Garnier, Spring 1884_

Emma's eyelids slowly fluttered open. She was lying on a soft bed, she realized, when she shifted. She slowly sat up. When Emma looked about the quiet middle-class room, she sighted waxed mahogany chairs and square antimacassars carefully placed over them, a chest of drawers, a clock on a mantelpiece, and a stand with shelves filled with shells, red pincushions, mother-of-pearl boats, and a large egg of some sort. An ostrich egg, perhaps. The furniture was ugly, but it was cozy and peaceful, at least. It reminded her of her own house, back when she lived with her parents, until they…

"Are you finally awake now?"

Emma, glancing in the direction of the voice, sighted a black-cloaked man. All his clothes were black, including… a mask?!

Yes, the man wore a black mask that covered his entire face. His eyes didn't seem to be there, as much as Emma peered at them—they were just twin holes.

Emma shrieked and tried to clamber backward. She reached the edge of the bed and screeched in a very unladylike manner when she fell over. A sharp arc of pain pierced her back when she hit the hardwood floor. "Ow!"

The man in the mask chuckled—an unnerving sound. "You are funny, Emma."

Emma felt a jolt of fear when she heard her name. How… how did he know?

As if reading her mind, the man said calmly, "You see, I have been following you for months, deducing the best time to strike. I know all about that silly friend of yours, Lucienne, and Meg. And I can tell you that Meg's wild story is true. The fall of the chandelier, the extortion, the death of Comte Philippe de Chagny—everything." He strolled over to Emma and held out a hand.

Emma, her fear overcome by a strange and sudden awe, extended her hand, grasping the thin, bony hand. "Who are you, by the way?"

The man in the mask paused before hauling her to her feet. "Forgive me for not introducing myself earlier. I am Erik."

* * *

Lucienne lifted the blankets on Emma's bed. "She's gone! Emma's gone!" she shrieked. "She's been kidnapped!"

Another ballet rat, Marie, rolled her eyes. "Don't be ridiculous, Lucienne. She probably got up earlier than you and left for the lavatory or something."

Lucienne sighed. "Okay." She sat down on her own bed, fiddling with the edges of her dress impatiently.

Several minutes later, Lucienne said, "Emma's probably lost."

"Emma's been here for several months. She knows the way to the lavatory," Marie pointed out. "Don't be ridiculous." She rolled her eyes again.

* * *

"Where's Emma LaRue?" Madame Devereaux snapped. She appeared fearsome, with a stick in her hands. She was scowling darkly at the ballet rats.

"I-I-I really don't know!" Lucienne cried, eyes wide with terror.

The ballet mistress glared at the girls. "Well, find her. Whoever brings Emma to me within ten minutes will be spared from a flogging. You girls are responsible for your peers, you know."

However, the last sentence was received by no one, as all the ballet rats rushed off to locate the missing Emma LaRue.

* * *

Lucienne rubbed her hands. _Madame Devereaux knows how to flog a girl,_ she thought. Her hands still ached from the pain.

The other girls, on their way to their dorms, grumbled as well, wondering out loud if Emma had done this on purpose.

"That's ridiculous," Marie snapped at them. "Even I know Emma well enough that she's too timid a girl to do that. She wouldn't risk a flogging." _Internally,_ Lucienne figured, _Marie's probably thinking about how dumb we all are and how smart she is._

"Perhaps she ran away," a rat suddenly stated. "She was so scared of Madame Devereaux, she left for some other place."

Marie pointed out, "But this is Emma's only home. If she left, there would be nowhere for her to go."

Lucienne paused. "Or perhaps she was kidnapped."

A hush fell over the ballet girls.

"Don't be silly," Marie interjected. "Why would someone want to kidnap a timid ballet girl like her?"

The tension in the air was palpable and dense.

Lucienne shrugged. "I don't know. The idea just popped into my head. You girls know what happened three years ago," she continued, paying no heed to what Meg had told her. "A Swedish singer was kidnapped. Her name was Christine Daae."

The girls crowded around Lucienne in fascination as she recited the tale Meg had given her.

"And there were these rumors of an Opera Ghost—I think he was the one who kidnapped Christine. So he must have kidnapped Emma."

"Hold on," a girl suddenly blurted. "Christine was a singer. Emma's a ballet girl, like us."

"But don't you understand?" Lucienne asked. "Christine used to be a ballet girl, too. However, she had the most beautiful voice, so she became a singer."

"Actually, she sang horribly, but supposedly a mentor trained her to sing properly," a voice interrupted. "And Lucienne, what have I told you about telling the other girls about the Opera Ghost?"

Meg stood a few meters from the huddling ballet rats, her arms crossed, a frown on her face.

Lucienne gulped nervously. "Oh, uh, you see, Emma is missing, and I think she was kidnapped by the Opera Ghost."

Meg's face darkened. "Do not speak of such things, Lucienne. A loose tongue like yours would get you into trouble. After all, a loose tongue cost Joseph Buquet his life."

* * *

Erik, listening from a hidden space, smirked behind his mask. So Lucienne knew what he was up to. Luckily, no one believed her, but he would have to… _dispose_ of her before she made any more deductions.

He thought of Joseph Buquet. That scene-shifter had a very loose tongue, and he had gotten a damned good look at Erik without his mask. He had to kill him.

Then there was that other scene-shifter… Louis Durand. His only crime was sighting Erik, but just in case, Erik killed him as well. It was best not to let the tales of the Opera Ghost rise from the ashes—for now.

And Emma—the ballet girl was in his house by the lake, sleeping on a cozy bed. Perhaps he should coach her, like he had coached Christine—except in person this time.

 _Oui_ , his plan was set and ready. He would find Christine, reclaim her as his, from that Vicomte. He would find her, at any cost.

The Opera Ghost would return.


	6. Chapter 5

Note from author: Thanks to DP1014 for improving this chapter. I am very grateful.

* * *

 _Palais Garnier, Spring 1884_

Passing a window as she walked back to the ballet dorm, Emma realized just how late in the day it was. The sun was already high in the sky; she had missed class and was in for a flogging. Reaching the dorm she could hear a muffled voice through the door followed by a thump. Oh no, Emma thought as she took a deep breath and turned the door knob.

"Emma! Come here!" the ballet mistress screeched as she raised and adjusted her cane. Emma closed the door and made her way to what she knew would be a proper and painful experience. "Hands up, you know the drill." With tense shoulders she raised her hands and a moment later wood met skin. The following few seconds were filled with the sounds of the swishing air quickly followed with a smack. "Where have you been?" Madame Devereaux bellowed as she landed the final blow to Emma's now red hands.

Emma winced at the final blow; she bit her lip and glanced over at the only other occupant in the room, Lucienne. What excuse could she make up the fact she had been missing for half the day? "I… I needed some air and was out exploring Paris," she replied, hoping Madame wouldn't make her leave the corps. The ballet mistress stared at Emma before closing her eyes. Emma had been late to class before and had received a lashing for it. Though Madame hated lateness, she still could tolerate it to a point. However, at which point did Madame tolerate it to was the question. Emma, however, had did something worse—she had missed class, something she believed held a larger penalty. The ballet mistress sighed and opened her eyes, looking at Emma.

"You were lucky not to have been run over by a carriage or injured. And though this isn't the first offence and I should kick you out of the corps, I have decided not to… this time. But don't push your luck next time," she said as she glared at Emma.

With a nod Emma let out a breath as her shoulders dropped.

"Good," Madame said as she walked towards the door. Opening the door, the ballet mistress turned toward the girls and said, "I expect both of you in class tomorrow on time," before she shut the door.

Several minutes later in her dorm room, Emma sat on her bed and looked at her now red hands.

"That really hurt," she said as she rubbed her hands in an attempt to get the redness to go away.

"Yeah, it does," Lucienne replied as she walked over to Emma's bed and sat down. "You probably got a harder flogging than anyone else." Emma looked at Lucienne's hands; fading pink streaks could be seen across the back of her hands.

"Yeah," Emma replied as continued to rub her hands.

"So, where did you go?" Lucienne asked.

Emma paused and glanced at Lucienne before returning her eyes to her hands. She couldn't tell Lucienne where she had been—she had sworn not to. If she did, she would break her promise not to speak of where she was and the deal she made with Erik would be broken. He would leave her and render her to just being another face in the corps. She recalled the conversation they had just minutes prior to her emergence into the surface. Emma had been following Erik—or rather, guided by Erik—through the dark path, trying not to trip, when Erik stopped and turned toward her.

"Remember, if you speak to anyone about me, then deal is off. You break your promise, I break my promise to give you voice lessons—and without me, you won't rise to prominence like you want," he had told her as they looked at each other.

"I promise," Emma replied. Erik nodded before pushing the wall behind him and motioning Emma out into the hall close to the dorms. When they had been discussing the deal earlier, Emma had admitted to wanting more than being in the background—she wanted fame.

"You have talent and it would be a waste to throw it away," Erik had silkily told her.

"Uh, Emma?" Lucienne asked worriedly, eyebrows crossed with concern. Emma snapped out of her thoughts and looked up at her. Lucienne continued: "What happened?"

"I can't say," Emma replied, looking away. Lucienne scowled.

"Why not?" she asked as she leaned toward Emma.

"I can't say," Emma repeated. Lucienne stared at Emma for a few seconds before giving up.

"Fine," Lucienne sighed as she returned to her bed. She reached for the secret stash of cookies she had stored from her last trip to the kitchen. Taking a bite from the cookie, she laid down on her bed. Odd, she thought to herself. She had told Madame Devereaux that she had been out in Paris—yet when asked where she was, Emma had gone quiet. Furthermore, when asked what exactly happened, Emma had avoided answering. Emma wasn't usually one to have secrets—unless, of course, she was sworn to secrecy. However, if it was just a secret between her and someone, why didn't she just say it was a secret? Lucienne pondered over this as she took another bite of her cookie. She glanced at Emma, who hadn't moved. Emma's eyes were unfocused—she was deep in thought. What had Emma so out of it? Lucienne thought. She won't give a clear answer… why? Suddenly it dawned on Lucienne: Emma was an open book unless someone else was involved. This person must have told her to keep quiet. If it was a harmless secret, Emma would have said it was a secret. But what if… what if this secret wasn't so harmless and Emma was threatened to secrecy? Threatened with her life, perhaps. It made sense; only a threat could keep Emma silent. Sitting up and shoving the rest of her cookie into her mouth, Lucienne told Emma she was going to see a friend before leaving the dorm. Briskly walking down several halls, Lucienne mentally took note of where she was heading. Finally, she reached her destination and knocked on the door.

"Meg? Meg Giry?" Lucienne cautiously asked. The door cracked open and Meg peeked out. Upon realizing who was at the door, she frowned.

"Lucienne, what is so serious that you have used my last name?" Meg asked, swinging the door wide open. "No matter, it must be really serious, as no one uses my last name unless it is of importance. Come, let's head outside as we're less likely to be overhead," she continued as she grabbed a shawl and closed her door.

* * *

Meg and Lucienne strolled along the dusty cobblestone path towards the river as the last golden rays of the sun shined through in the afternoon light as Lucienne voiced what she had observed and theorized earlier. Parisians walked passed the duo as they rushed off to where they needed to be, paying no heed to them, as coaches clopped down the street with their drivers pulling on the black leather reins of their horses.

"So you see, Emma could be in danger!" Lucienne concluded with concern. Meg nodded, her face dark and serious.

"I see," Meg said as they reached the bank of the Seine. Lucienne stepped closer to the edge of the river, observing the reflective golden streaks caused by the setting sun.

"What do you think?" Lucienne asked.

Meg peered out into the sunset as she replied, "I think… Emma may be in grave danger," she said in a low voice, "most likely because of the same person who kidnapped Christine. He or she must have returned for some reason." Meg pondered if it was the so-called Opera Ghost from three years ago that was back to stir up the same trouble. "None of us know what happened to Christine or the Viscount Raoul de Chagny, who went after her in a rescue attempt. We assumed they perished, as the investigation turned up empty. Over the years, people have just forgotten about them." Meg and Lucienne continued to stare at their surroundings, both lost in thought. Suddenly Meg turned to Lucienne. "There may be someone, though, who still remembers them and might know where they may have gone."

Lucienne slowly blinked, not believing what she heard. "Really?!" she asked.

"Yes. He used to be a mysterious opera regular known only as the Persian. After the events of three years ago, he suddenly stopped coming to the opera altogether. I still remember this vividly: whenever I and the other ballet girls spotted him, we would make this sign to ward off evil. We were extremely naive back then…" Meg took a breath as she thought of the strange Persian. He had been allowed to go backstage whenever he pleased—perhaps he had some knowledge of where Christine and the Vicomte were.

"Let's go, then! What are we waiting for?!" Lucienne spoke as she turned and took a few steps forward.

"Lucienne," Meg hissed which caused the girl to stop. "I don't even know where Persian lives." Lucienne turned around.

"What?" she asked.

Meg replied, "I said I don't know where the Persian lives." Meg repeated pulling on her shawl over her shoulder. Lucienne blinked in realization.

"Oh, didn't think of that."

* * *

Emma glanced at the clock as she sat on her bed, the minute hand moving closer to the top. She closed her eyes as she tapped her fingers on her lap to the ticking of the clock. He said he would be coming tonight—but was she early? Was he running late? What if he forgot—or worse—he wasn't going to teach her? But how could he abandon her when she didn't break her end of the deal? Perhaps she was too early and he meant to get her later on. Emma suddenly felt the tingles on her back, the feeling one gets when one is being watched. Emma opened her eyes just as a dark figure emerged from the wall.

"I have come for you."


	7. Chapter 6

Thanks again to DP1014 for helping me with this chapter and reminding me that European dates are different from American dates! :) Please enjoy. ;)

* * *

Palais Garnier, Spring 1884

Meg paused in front of the door to the opera managers' office, hand lifted to knock on the wooden door. Should I knock? she thought. The former managers, Firmin Richard and Armand Moncharmin, had long since left the opera business, leaving these new managers in charge for the last three years. The current managers had arrived after the events regarding the Opera Ghost and Christine Daae and probably didn't know about the Persian. Although, Meg thought, there might be some old documents on the former eccentric opera-goer.

Suddenly with a creak the wooden door opened and Meg's decision was made for her. In the doorway stood one of the managers, Édouard Rochefort, as impeccable as ever. Rochefort was a man of average height and slender frame with soft blue eyes, who always presented himself with his dark brown hair neatly, combed back, a well-groomed mustache and a fine suit.

"What are you doing out here, Mademoiselle?" Rochefort asked. "Are you going to come in?" The manager widened the door and beckoned for her to enter.

Meg peered around as she stepped into the office. There were disheveled stacks of papers on the elongated desk, half-melting candles that illuminated the room, books on shelves, and lounging on a chair was the Opera House's second manager, Jean-Pierre Peletier. Unlike Rochefort, Peletier appeared unkempt and exhausted. His disheveled light-brown hair contained streaks of white, and his greenish brown eyes had dark rings under them.

"You see, Mademoiselle, we've been busy these days..." Rochefort trailed off as he cast a glance at Peletier, who stood up from his chair. Peletier brushed imaginary crumbs off his creased suit and turned to look at Meg.

"Are you Mademoiselle Giry?" Peletier inquired. "The best dancer in the ballet corps?" Meg nodded in response. Peletier then asked,"What brings you here?"

"Messieurs," Meg began hesitantly, "I was hoping you two would know something about an opera regular from three years ago. He was known as the Persian." Meg paused, waiting for a response. What if they don't know anything? Then the lead would be lost. She could find another lead, but it would be difficult… Meg's thoughts were interrupted by Rochefort.

"Yes, yes. I believe the old managers, Messieurs Richard and Moncharmin, mentioned a strange operagoer known only as the Persian," Rochefort said as he shuffled through a stack of documents on the desk. "We may still have some papers on him… Peletier, don't tell me you got rid of those papers!" he said as Peletier moved towards the desk.

"I'll… I'll… Rochefort, don't threaten me like that—I—I—they're probably somewhere in here," Peletier stuttered as he turned toward a pile of papers that looked just like any other pile. He rifled through the papers and after what felt like hours to Meg, pulled out a document that looked just like any other document. "I think this may be it, Rochefort, a document from three years ago. An interview between The Managers of the Opera-House and the Opera-goer known as The Persian, dated 12 April 1881."

Rochefort snatched the document from Peletier's hands. "Let me look at that. Mademoiselle, this document might give us some information about the Persian. I shall read it out loud," Rochefort proclaimed pompously. Meg smiled and moved towards Rochefort.

"I'll just take it to my room and read it there," Meg offered. "I don't want to take up your time. I'll return this document as soon as I'm done with it," she said as she plucked the document from the Rochefort's hands and walked out of the office without another word.

* * *

Meg peered at the document before her silently reading it.

RICHARD: Who are you, exactly?

PERSIAN: I am Farhad Askari, an exiled Persian prince.

MONCHARMIN: Do you know anything about the events that have recently occurred at the Opera House, like perhaps the abduction of Christine Daae?

PERSIAN: I know a fair amount of things, but you won't believe me.

RICHARD: Just tell us.

PERSIAN: The person responsible for these happenings is a man named Erik. He has a brilliant mind but he is nowhere near sane. In addition, he wears a mask nearly all of the time to hide his terrible face. I was his friend when he was in Persia, during the rosy hours of Mazenderan. However, he had to leave as he knew too much. I helped him escape, so the Shah-in-Shah sent me into exile and took away my property. However, since I was royalty, I receive a modest pension from the Persian government. I then decided to settle in a small, middle-class flat on the Rue de Rivoli, across the street from the Tuileries. Afterwards, I became a fixture of the Opera House, as you two know. Eventually I learned that Erik lived in the Opera House, but in the cellars. I also found out about his… love for Christine. He claims that he loves her and she loves him, but more likely, he's obsessed with her while she fears him. Eventually, the Vicomte and I traveled into the bowels of the Opera House to find Christine and… Well, long story short, Erik realized that a true lover would let his love be happy, and he let Christine and the Vicomte go. He dropped by my house a while later, and confessed that he was dying. Once he dies, I will be notified and I shall post a notice in the obituary section of L'Epoque.

RICHARD: This account is ridiculous.

PERSIAN: I knew you two wouldn't believe me.

As Meg was read the text, she realized something: the Persian had given away his address! She peered at the text again.

I decided to settle in a small, middle-class flat on the Rue de Rivoli, across the street from the Tuileries.

So there it was! Meg thought with a sigh.

Little did Meg know that she was being watched.


End file.
